


Grow Your Own Fucking Moustache, Asshole

by lamentables



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-07
Updated: 2008-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:46:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamentables/pseuds/lamentables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Actually Ray, if you wish to liken the moustache to a breed of toy dog, I believe it more closely resembles the Affenpinscher. And I’m sure that if you were to grow a moustache it would be most attractive.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grow Your Own Fucking Moustache, Asshole

**Author's Note:**

> Written for vsee. Beta by the quick and incomparable nos4a2no9 - many thanks, my dear.
> 
> Title stolen from The Wet Secrets.

**Sunday**

“Grow your own fucking moustache, asshole” Allnut yelled over his shoulder as two uniforms dragged him off to the cells.

Ray slammed his hand against the doorframe of Interview Two and muttered “Yeah, and it’d look better than yours, Charlie.”

Fraser just sighed.

“What?"

“It was most unfortunate, Ray, that you failed to notice the three white hairs on the far left of Mr Allnut’s moustache. Whilst I am no expert on the subject, I am reasonably confident that the manufacturers of false moustaches would not take the trouble to introduce that degree of verisimilitude into their product.”

“It was fortunate for Charlie-boy that I didn’t manage to rip it off. And what did he mean, ‘grow your own’? As if I’d want to walk around looking like a Chihuahua crawled onto my face and died there.”

“Actually Ray, if you wish to liken the moustache to a breed of toy dog, I believe it more closely resembles the Affenpinscher. And I’m sure that if you were to grow a moustache it would be most attractive.”

Ray frowned at Fraser for a moment. “Whatever.” He strode off, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s get the paperwork written up; I’m tired and you’ve got to get ready for the Ottawa trip.”

Even with Fraser’s superior typing skills it seemed as though they would never get away from the precinct. Three weeks of stakeouts, two car chases across the city, a burned out warehouse, and the requisitioning of two nuns’ habits, plus an expense claim for a dozen tubes of hair gel, a bottle of sesame oil, three horse blankets and two hundred boxes of confetti filled rather a lot of forms.

Fraser typed and Ray tried to remember everything they’d promised to replace or pay for during the investigation. Rubbing his hand back and forth along his jaw, Ray began doodling on the nearest manila folder.

“Well, that seems to be the last of the reports, Ray. Ray? Ray. Ray. Ray!”

“Huh?”

“We seem to be finished here, Ray, assuming you have completed the 41G?”

“Do you… Do you really think I’d be attractive with a moustache?”

“Well, given your reluctance to shave on a daily basis, Ray, I have observed you with the beginnings of a moustache on a considerable number of occasions over the last two years, and it is my opinion that the look would suit you.”

“That’s Canadian for yes, right?” asked Ray, scraping his thumb across his top lip and checking out the stubble there.

“Indeed.”

Ray looked thoughtfully at Fraser for a while. Fraser rubbed his eyebrow.

"You know, I think a moustache might suit you too.”

Fraser stopped rubbing his eyebrow and rubbed his top lip instead. “I don’t think so.”

“Yeah. I mean look at your hair, how thick it is. You’d grow a serious stache in a week, I’ll bet.”

“Actually, Ray…”

“Let’s do it.”

“Do what Ray?”

“Have a competition. A stache-off. Except it would be a stache-on. A compe-stache-on. Let’s see who can grow the best moustache between now and next weekend.”

“I fear that is not sufficient time for me to grow anything worthy of the name. And besides, you have an unfair advantage since I shaved this morning and you last shaved on Friday evening while we waited for the pizza to be delivered. That’s a 34 hour advantage, in fact.”

“No problem, we’ll just… here, use this ruler to measure how much moustache I’ve got now and we’ll, you know, adjust things at the end. C’mon Frase, just measure the stache already and we’re good to go.”

Fraser sighed, but got up and moved to the other side of the desk, taking the ruler Ray waved impatiently at him.

“Do sit still, Ray. There’s not very much growth to measure yet. Also there seem to be rather a lot of silver hairs here, which don’t show up well against this metal ruler.”

“Hey! There are no...” Fraser silenced Ray by quickly slapping a palm across his mouth. Ray’s eyes widened even further when Fraser’s hand firmly grasped his jaw and angled his head into the light. Fraser then brought the ruler back to Ray’s lip with his right hand and, moving his face so close to Ray’s that Ray was going cross-eyed trying to look at him, made a couple of small satisfied “hmmm” noises. Fraser let go abruptly and pulled a small notebook from his pouch to jot down the measurements he’d taken.

“I do not have any silver hairs! That’s got to be a breach of the Mountie code, lying like that.”

“Silver hairs, Ray. A significant number of them. They are only obvious on close inspection at the moment, but I’m sure they will be more easily identified once your stubble has grown a little further. By Wednesday, I’d say.”

Ray scowled. “Devious, lying Canadians. You’re not getting me to give up, Fraser. There’s no backing out now.” He reached out towards Fraser’s face and stroked a finger across his top lip. “Nope, nothing to measure there; barely any stubble at all.”

“Well, I think that’s everything dealt with now, Ray. Time for you to go home and get some sleep and for me to get back to the Consulate and do my packing. Constable Turnbull has arranged transportation for me, and I understand I leave for the airport at 7am.”

“You don’t need me to drive you?”

“Thank you, Ray, but everything is organised.”

“S’good. I don’t plan to get up until late anyway. And you’re coming back Thursday, right?”

“Thursday evening, that’s correct.”

“Want me to pick you up from the airport then?”

“I expect Turnbull will have made arrangements for that too, but I shall let you know if I require assistance.”

Ray picked the Stetson up from his desk and dropped it gently on Fraser’s head. “Pitter patter.”

 

 **Monday**

As predicted, it was afternoon by the time Ray dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He studied his stubble carefully in the mirror but didn’t detect any silver. And as a first class detective he’d be able to detect something on his own face for sure. The Mountie was definitely messing with his mind.

Standing under the shower, he thought for a while about the Mountie measuring his stubble. About the strong, warm hand over his mouth and how he’d had to stifle the urge to lick Fraser’s palm. Not the first urge he’d had around Fraser. There had been altogether too much stifling since the Mountie walked into the 2-7. Urges and partners. Two things that went together about as well as Rays and stifling.

He turned off the shower when the water began to run cold.

\--

A conference was precisely the wrong place to begin growing a moustache; Fraser retreated to his room as soon as the day’s final session was over.

 

 **Tuesday**

So, he’d had a day off, got up late, taken a very long shower, not bothered to dress, and sprawled on the couch until it was time to move back to bed. Now, Ray was wired and wanting some action, but the only action on offer at the 2-7 was the pile of paperwork Frannie had dumped on his desk first thing. The message from Welsh suggested he’d better get it finished and filed by the end of the week, but it was only lunchtime and he was ready to do anything at all to get out of there.

He reached for the phone, but remembered Fraser was out of town. He rubbed his moustache for a moment, impressed by how much it had grown overnight.

He flicked a paperclip at Huey and tried to pin the blame on Dewey, but the Duck Boys were busy processing a group of accountants who had been caught smuggling fake harissa paste from Tunisia and were not interested in a fight.

He thought about hanging out with Frannie in the break room.

He pulled the next folder off the top of the pile, tilted back his chair and propped his feet on the desk.

\--

Fraser avoided talking to anyone, as far as that was possible. When he was forced to speak, he mumbled from behind his hand.

 

 **Wednesday**

Ray figured he should be pleased that Welsh sent him home early – Leave detective. Please. Leave now before I have to arrest the entire precinct for rioting – but it left him even more desperate for distraction. It was too early to swing by a bar, too early to go for dinner, and if he stopped off at the Consulate to take the wolf out to the park he’d have to talk to Turnbull.

He checked his watch and figured that, with the hour’s difference and Canadian organisation, Fraser would probably have finished for the day. Couldn’t hurt to phone.

\--

“Constable Benton Fraser speaking”

“Hey”

“Ray. Is everything OK?”

“It’s fine. I’m just…bored. Welsh has had me catching up with paperwork all week and I’m about ready to pop someone.”

“Oh dear.”

“How ‘bout you?”

“Well I must confess that this Health & Safety Conference, whilst essential, is somewhat less than stimulating. And I have been rather at a loose end during the evenings.”

“You’re bored too, huh?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t get together with the other Mounties and, I dunno, go out and tidy up the town?”

“I haven’t really been interacting with my colleagues.”

“Hmmm?”

“Well, Ray, I’m feeling particularly self-conscious about the facial hair situation.”

“Yeah, how’s that coming? I’m telling you there’s no silver in this moustache of mine, buddy. Maybe you’re the one who’s looking old?”

“No, as far as I am aware I have no silver hairs anywhere at all.”

“So what’s the problem then?”

“Well, although there is no regulation requiring members of the RCMP to be clean-shaven, the transitional period when one is actually growing a moustache – or a beard, were one to attempt it – is at odds with the expectation that officers will be impeccably turned out at all times.”

“Is that freakspeak for you looking like a scruff? Because that I don’t believe.”

“Well, apparently I do.”

“Who told you that?”

“The conference convenor. In a most disapproving manner.”

“He’s an idiot. Probably jealous of your moustache-growing talents.”

“I don’t...”

“So, you and your stubble want a lift tomorrow night?”

“Thank you, Ray, that’s most thoughtful, but Constable Turnbull arranged for me to be collected from the airport.”

“You’ll call though if you need me.”

“As ever.”

“OK, guess I’ll leave you to concentrate on growing the old face-fungus then.”

“Thank you. Perhaps you could occupy yourself by counting the silver hairs in yours.”

“See ya, freak.”

“Bye, Ray.”

 

 **Thursday**

“You’ve got all that, Detective?”

“…yeah..”

“You’re not upset about the meteor landing on your GTO, crushing it before setting it alight?”

“…yeah..”

“Detective! Vecchio!”

“Sir?”

“Have you heard anything I’ve been saying?”

“Of course sir.”

Welsh raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Right. ‘Of course sir’. Well, get to it.”

Ray nodded. And looked around blankly.

“My office. Box of papers to be sifted and sorted for the Sayer case. Now. And if you check your watch one more time, I’m taking it and signing it in as evidence.”

\--

Fraser pulled his Stetson lower, hoping it would shadow his face, and scanned the straggle of meeters, greeters and taxi drivers. The uniform, of course, ensured that he was spotted immediately by his driver.

“Canadian Consulate, right?”

“Ah. Actually, there’s somewhere else I wanted to go first. I should be grateful if you would drop me off at this address instead.” Fraser pulled his notebook from his belt pouch, tore off a sheet and handed it to the driver.

“It’s a bit late for somewhere like that to be open.”

“No, it’s OK. I took the precaution of calling ahead and the proprietor is expecting me.”

 

 **Friday**

“Hey buddy.”

“Ah, Ray. Good morning.”

“They let you back in again then? Gonna do some liaising today?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid Inspector Thatcher has accumulated a surprisingly long list of tasks that I need to perform here at the Consulate. There is a veritable mountain of paperwork.”

“Oh. OK. Guess I’ll catch up with you tomorrow then. And we can compare moustaches.”

“About that Ray…”

“Nope, you are not going to mess with my mind again, Mountie. My stache ain’t silver and according to Frannie I’m looking rather virulent, which I’m pretty sure is supposed to be a good thing.”

“I expect she meant virile, Ray. It is not uncommon for facial hair to be associated with virility.”

\--

“Ah, there you are Constable Fraser! I was hoping that you would help Turnbull with the decorations for my dinner with the North American Peruvian Horse Association. He does have a tendency to be overenthusiastic and I don’t want the….” Thatcher stood speechless for a moment, her hand raised to her top lip. “Fraser?”

“Inspector?”

“You didn’t…that was remarkably fast…you look…” She gesticulated vaguely at him. “The moustache. New. Surprising.”

“I suppose you could call it a gift, Inspector.”

“Carry on, Constable.”

 

 **Saturday**

Fraser had no intention of keeping his moustache a moment longer than was necessary to satisfy Ray. In anticipation of returning to his clean-shaven state he was carefully stropping his razor, when he heard an urgent knocking. It was rather early for Ray, and it could be a Canadian citizen in need of help, but Fraser smiled to himself as he laid down the razor and headed for the front door of the Consulate.

He had barely opened the door wide enough when Ray slid hurriedly past him. “You gmpha lllp me frrrsh” he mumbled through his scarf as headed off towards Fraser’s office.

“Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray.” Fraser called as he followed, but Ray didn’t stop until he was standing in the middle of Fraser’s office with his back to the door.

“Close the door, Fraser.”

“There’s no-one else here at present and no reason to expect anyone.”

“Still. Close the door.”

Fraser complied. “It’s safe for you to turn around now Ray.”

Ray turned slowly, his eyes closed. “Go on. Say it. Get over with.”

“Oh dear.”

“and…”

“Ray, your moustache whilst showing impressive growth and no silver hairs, appears somewhat green. Maybe it’s the lighting.”

“No Fraser it’s not the lighting. It’s green. Green. Very green. Like lime jello or that disgusting peppermint drink Stella liked when we were kids. Or Martians. You gotta help me.”

“Help you? How did it happen?” Fraser frowned and tipped his head to the left. “Can’t you just shave it off.”

“First of all, I can’t shave it before we’ve decided who’s won the compe-stache-on. And second of all, I can’t tell you how it happened.”

“You are unable to tell me, or you are choosing not to tell me?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Ray. Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me. We need to get to the bottom of this. If you did something that turned it green, it’s easily dealt with. If there was an assault, I’ll go with you to the precinct. But if your moustache spontaneously turned lime green overnight, then we need to instigate an immediate investigation and should probably take you to hospital.”

Ray groaned and opened his eyes. He blinked. Then pointed at Fraser’s face.

“How?” He shook his head. “You’ve been cheating. You’ve been painting your lip with pregnant yak snot or some other disgusting thing and that’s not buddies.”

“No yak snot, Ray. Or any other hair-stimulating preparations. Now tell me what happened to you.”

“Fraser, I thought it was bad having a lime green moustache, but now I’ve got to compare it with SuperMountie who can grow a freaking enormous moustache in no time at all. I can’t tell you. And I can’t stay here with you showing off how verdant you are.”

“Ray. Don’t go.” Fraser reached out as Ray tried to push by, grasping his bicep. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Looking, erm, verdant. The truth is, my facial hair has always been rather sparse, and that’s why I didn’t want to participate in this contest with you.”

Ray took a step towards Fraser and peered closely at the moustache. “It is very thick. And perfect. Even for you.”

He reached out and stroked the moustache. Then he raised an eyebrow at Fraser. Fraser closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, and gave a tiny nod. Ray picked carefully at one end of the moustache, then gripped it firmly between thumb and forefinger and ripped it from Fraser’s face.

“Ow. You could have been a little more careful, Ray. Ray?”

“I can see why you’d want to hide that. It’s…well you can’t really call it a moustache. You look like a teenager who can’t shave and wants to impress the girls, anyway.”

“It seems ill-advised for a man with a lime green moustache to be mocking the facial hair of another. Now tell me how you came to be green.”

“Before I tell you anything. Not that I’m going to tell you anything. You need to admit defeat. Mine is clearly the better moustache here. Apart from the whole green thing.”

“I concur. You are the undisputed champion of moustache growing…And green hair.”

Ray dipped his head for a moment, then looked up at Fraser through his eyelashes. “I dyed it.”

“You dyed it green? Why?”

“No, I did not dye it green. Not deliberately, anyway. I’m not a freak, unlike some people. You were right about the silver hairs, and I didn’t want you to be right, so I used some hair dye on it yesterday. Only. I don’t know, I must have mixed the bottles up with something else, because it turned green in the night.”

Fraser’s mouth twitched at the corners and Ray glared at him. “Hey, no laughing, Constable Bumfluff.”

“Of course not, Detective Jell-O.” Fraser’s control slipped a little and a tiny, giggle escaped. Ray rolled his eyes and punched him in the arm.

“So, have you got a real, American razor? Because there’s no way I’m going out there again until this green thing is gone.”

“You’re welcome to use mine, Ray, but I only have a straight razor. Come with me and I’ll demonstrate for you. I’m most anxious to get rid of this…bumfluff.”

In the bathroom Fraser used cup soap and a badger hair brush he had found at a local thrift store for the bargain price of $1 (though by the time he had shared with the proprietor his extensive knowledge of tools of the shoemaker’s trade he was able to leave the shop with the brush and a spare razor without making any payment at all). He applied the lather to his top lip and paused to explain to Ray the correct technique.

“Obviously, Ray, the razor should never be moved in a horizontal manner. The strokes should be vertical and against the direction of hair growth. Clearly the moustache grows down towards the lip and the strokes should therefore be upwards from the lip towards the nose. The blade is, necessarily, extremely sharp so you should use a light touch.”

“Fraser, there is no way I’m gonna do that. I like my lips. And I’m pretty fond of my nose too.”

“Don’t be silly, Ray. It’s actually much easier and less dangerous than people think. Please observe carefully as I will not be able to speak and shave at the same time.”

Moving very deliberately, Fraser efficiently cleared the lather from his lip. Ray watched closely, not speaking, though his breathing sounded loud. The only other noise in the room was a slight rasp as the razor slid cleanly between Fraser’s lip and nose.

Fraser rinsed away the remnants of shaving soap, patted his face briskly with a towel and presented himself for Ray’s inspection. Ray hesitated for a moment, then stroked his fingers across Fraser’s face.

“Yeah.” Ray cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s a good shave. A close shave. Can’t feel stubble at all. Not that you had much of a moustache going on in the first place.”

“Your turn?” Fraser raised an eyebrow.

“Oh no, not me. I’d cut off my nose or something.” Ray rubbed awkwardly at his moustache. “Would you…”

“It’s not something I’ve done before, Ray, but I could try shaving off the moustache for you.”

Ray nodded.

“If you’re sure?”

Ray nodded again. “Yeah. Go for it.”

Fraser lathered up some more soap and applied it vigorously to Ray’s face, sighing as Ray giggled and tried to move out of reach.

“Fraser, it tickles!”

“Please stand still, Ray. You do understand that you must, on no account, move whilst I’m using the razor?”

“Do I look stupid?”

“Well, with that moustache…”

“Get on with it.” Ray growled.

Fraser turned Ray towards the mirror and moved in close behind him. “Hold your lip firm like this,” he instructed, pulling a face into the mirror. Ray, suddenly quiet, complied.

“Okay, here we go. Don’t flinch.”

Fraser moved in still closer, his groin against Ray’s buttocks, and brought his hands around to Ray’s face. “Erm, you’re just a little taller than I am, Ray. Would you mind slouching slightly?” Fraser’s face flushed slightly as Ray wriggled into a lower stance. “Yes, that’s good. Now, stand still, please.”

Fraser breathed, evenly, for a moment and took the first stroke from the centre of Ray’s lip to his nose. Without speaking, he wiped the lather and hair onto a hand towel and repeated the action, removing first the right side and then the left side of Ray’s greenery. He didn’t move away when he’d finished, just stood behind Ray, appraising his handiwork. Ray stared into the mirror too, catching and holding Fraser’s gaze.

Abruptly, Fraser moved away, reaching for a bottle from the little shelf over the towels. Ray used Fraser’s flannel to wash away any remaining flecks of lather. Fraser poured a little of the clear liquid into one palm, and then used the fingertips of his other hand to dab at Ray’s lip.

“Ow! Fraser! Ow. Ow. Stop it. That stings. Fuck!”

Fraser looked unrepentant. “It’s alcohol, Ray. I don’t see any damage, but the alcohol will both act as an antiseptic and numb any damaged skin.” He rubbed his fingertips gently across Ray’s skin again.

“I’m not sure I want my skin to be numb.” Ray took a step forward, getting into Fraser’s space. He dipped his own fingers in what was left of the alcohol in Fraser’s palm and rubbed it gently across Fraser’s lip. “Want your skin numbed?”

Fraser shook his head slowly and wiped his hands on the nearest towel. “No Ray, I want to feel everything.” Then he leaned forward and kissed Ray with the same delicacy and precision he’d shown in shaving him.

It wasn’t a long kiss, nor a forceful kiss. It wasn’t loud or wet. And yet it was a kiss that led to Ray pushing Fraser up against the wall and resting there, a palm each side Fraser’s head. “This okay?”

Fraser dropped a hand to Ray’s hip and nodded.

The second kiss lasted rather longer. Finally, Ray pulled back and smiled, “My place?”

Fraser nodded again, and initiated their third kiss.

 

 **Sunday**

When Ray woke, the room was filled with patchy sunlight filtered through the threadbare curtains. He rolled onto his back and stretched, grinning at Fraser who was resting on one elbow watching intently. “Morning, Frase.”

“Just barely.” Fraser reached out and touched Ray’s lip. “Still smooth.”

Ray scrubbed at the stubble on his chin and looked thoughtful. “You brought the shaving stuff with you, right?”


End file.
